I love the books and recordings of
Fr. Richard Rohr -- I don't know anyone who doesn't -- and feel privileged that I was able to hear one of his lectures about a year ago. It did not disappoint this Franciscan.
Fr. Richard seems to reach into the very heart of things, lifting us from the earth's mud-holes to the sky's glories. One of the muddiest holes for me is how to deal with panhandlers, whom I frequently encounter in my travels, especially those travels that take me to large cities in the US although there are panhandlers in other countries as well, some of them harder to ignore because in places like Tbilisi (Georgia) and Tashkent (Uzbekistan), children are sent out to do the begging, in spite of social norms against that.
I don't know about you, but I don't have the resources to give to every person who holds out a hand. To give or not to give becomes an on-the-spot, difficult-to-make decision. Give or not give -- I hesitate: what goes through my mind unbidden are questions whether the money will be used to buy alcohol, whether the person in front of me is really insane and could be in a shelter but chooses not to (as some psychologists have suggested), whether this is someone who has been put in my path deliberately or put himself/herself there quite by coincidence, and on and on, until I simply cannot decide and the decision is made for me by the appearance of a wealthier-looking target.
By giving to panhandlers, I have wondered on numerous occasions, are we giving to the poor in the way that Scripture instructs us. Or are we just maybe handing out a few coins (or, okay, big bucks -- it's all relative to our own income, anyway) as a matter of "paying" for being better off than the person on the street with his/her hand out? And where does that feeling of guilt come from when we just walk by or a moment's hesitation takes a panhandler off in a different direction? Is it guilt that we are not on the street, too? Is the feeling of guilt perhaps a feeling of unworthiness, that we have no more right to the material goods that we enjoy than should have the destitute people we meet on the street? (Perhaps "meet" is the wrong word in most instances.)
In discussing gifting and almsgiving, in Chapter One, "When Charity Is Not Love" of
Grace in Action, which I am currently reading, Fr. Richard writes, "The spiritual trap was that we always remained in charge; we decided who was worthy and unworthy of our love, and we garnered significant self-esteem as a byproduct."
Three situations come to mind where I had either the time or the resources to react in perhaps a more responsible way (here I am referring to responsibility before God), when I did have a chance to
meet the people asking for help.
The first instance took place in Moscow, Russia. I was providing consultation to the Ministry of Higher Education, and every day during the three weeks or so I spent there I had to pass through the tunnel connecting transfer stations at Metrostantsia Biblioketa imeni Lenina (then called Lenin Library Metro Station; with the re-naming of the stations, I am not sure that the name has remained the same, but it was one of the stations very close to the Kremlin -- and that has not changed!), where, I would pass by a squatting woman, dressed all in black, with her hand held out and her head hung down. Beside her, a little girl of perhaps 3-4 years, was sometimes leaning against her knee, sometimes squatting in a similar posture with her hand also held out, and sometimes twirling around, dancing from tile to tile that lined the metro floor. Mother and daughter, I assumed. Passersby (more frequently than I usually see happening in the USA) would drop some coins or press some paper money into the woman's hand. I never saw anyone speak. This scene was more remarkable because it was occurring right after
raspad (the dissolution of the former Soviet Union); during Soviet Union days beggars were unheard of and, for that matter, not permitted. Panhandlers and beggars were a new-order phenomenon, one with which contemporary Russia would become all too familiar. What put this woman on the streets, I wondered? I, too, was unused to seeing beggars in Russia and certainly not a mother and child. Although I never handed out any alms to her and cannot say why I did not, I felt uncomfortable each morning and evening that I passed her. The last day I was in Moscow, I was making my final trip back to where I was staying with friends and realized that I had forgotten to change my leftover
per diem rubles to dollars. My friends would not be able to do that for me; they did not have dollars -- it was still too early in post-Soviet history for dollars to have appeared in the households of everyday people and too early for the appearance of those exchanges that now appear on every street corner in large cities like Moscow. Further, I was leaving at pre-dawn hours, long before the airport exchange would open, and once I got back to the USA, the money was useless. Rubles are not tied to the gold standard and hence cannot be converted into other currency outside Russia. Moreover, I had more than the amount that visitors were allowed to take out of the country so the money would have been confiscated by Russian customs with the chance of getting in trouble. Just then, I came across the lady and girl. It was before the great evening hordes would sweep through the tunnels and carry anyone standing still past their preferred stopping points, and so I had a chance to meet these two. I squatted beside the lady and asked her why she was on the street. She told me a little of her story, much of which I have forgotten. It rang true: an abusive alcoholic husband without a job (being on the street was safer than being at home and certainly she did not want to leave her child at home with him when he was drunk) and the vicious cycle of not having money to obtain care for her child (child care was not a problem in the Soviet days of ever-present
yasli, or children's centers) and having a child with her getting in the way of getting a job, plus a depressed and changing economy where many of the traditional jobs were no longer viable. And, of course, there was that problem with lack of knowledge (how to survive in a more capitalistic manner, how to be independent, how to problem-solve) that comes with mother's milk in the USA and had not been required before the
raspad in Russia. In an instant, she became for me an archetype. Anyone could have been she, given a similar unfortunate set of circumstances. In fact, there were times that, except for God tossing me some contemporary manna in the most critical moment (only God knows why because while I desperately needed it, I did not particularly deserve it), I could have been she. Talking to her, I realized that I knew how to handle my
per diem money. While I could have used those dollars at home for any number of things, they were, in reality, "spare" rubles that I should have spent for
per diem but had not needed because friends had seen to it that I was well fed and had a bed to sleep in (although I did share it with the daughter in the family, Russian apartments being miniscule by American standards). I explained my dilemma in converting rubles to dollars to the lady and asked her if she would take them for her child. Giving her that many rubles straight out could have been quite embarrassing, but for her child, nothing would have been embarrassing. The amount of money would either keep her off the streets for a couple of months or provide her with the means to look for work; I hoped she would choose the latter but have no way of knowing how things turned out. The thought that she would not simply be benefitting herself but would also be helping out a foreigner (whom Russians feel committed to help) let her maintain a sense of self-respect. I suppose the self-respect of a panhandler should not have been important to me, and actually the self-respect of a
panhandler (i.e. stranger) would not have been. However, thanks to our short conversation, I had now
met this woman. She was no longer a stranger. She mumbled something about God bringing us together for mutual help, but at the time I was an atheist and did not understand what she meant. I do now.
The second event took place at a metro station in Rosslyn, Virginia. I had arrived almost an hour early to meet a friend and former colleague from my days of working at the US Department of State. Since he lived considerably far off the public transportation trail, he was picking me up at the nearest metro and driving him to his home for some casual evening catch-up with him and his family after several years of not seeing him. I emerged from the bowels of the station, blinked at the clock on the station wall as the setting sun beamed into the open portal, and saw that I would have a considerable wait. Not a problem: I usually have a book to read and I always have a notebook for whatever book or article I am currently working on. I spied an empty bench and walked over to it at about the same time as a foreign-looking man perhaps in his forties, clearly a panhandler, did the same. We nearly collided in the attempt to sit down. He apologized and moved to the edge of the bench, and I sat down on the other side. No one sat between us during the 3-4 minutes that lapsed while I debated whether to read or to write. As I reached into my purse for my notebook, I felt the panhandler's eyes on me and turned to look at him. He had a kindly and curious expression on his face. Perhaps because I did not avert my gaze, he asked me what I was waiting for -- typically commuters rush off to the buses for the various suburbs. During peak hours, there is almost never a wait. I explained my poor planning to him, and he commented on the perfect weather for such a long wait. Now that he had had the audacity to ask me a personal question, I felt that I could do the same and asked him what he was doing on the bench (sounds like a neat title for an article: Strangers on a Bench!), and he proceeded to tell me a little about his life. As the conversation continued, the distance between us narrowed psychologically and physically. He did not ask me for money, but the subject of food came up and he volunteered that he was hungry. I suggested that we get a bite to eat at the Roy Rogers across the street. He initially declined, saying that he had been given just enough money that day to be able to launder his clothing and that was important to him. (Ah, self-respect again!) I insisted, explaining that I was a world traveler and had picked up the social norm of some other countries where the person who does the inviting does the paying. That was acceptable, and off we went for some good roast beef and an hour's conversation. I learned that the person I had met was a computer scientist from India and for a variety of reasons found working in the USA as a computer scientist both stressful and not what he wanted out of life. (There was a new thought for me.) He gave me all the details of his daily and weekly life, how he usually obtained enough money to take his clothes to a laundromat in Georgetown across Key Bridge. He would take them off, revealing a clean set that he wore underneath, wash & dry the outer garments, and then in a public restroom would put the cleaned clothes on as the bottom layer and keep the former bottom layer as the outer layer. It sounded pretty ingenious to me. He also told me that he usually was given enough money by commuters, some of them on a regular basis, to keep himself from starving although there were days when he was hungry. Other than clean clothes and an occasional meal, he wanted nothing else from life. He enjoyed watching passersby and was delighted with an occasional conversation with someone. That meal at Roy Rogers was one of the best I have ever had.
The third event occurred in the tiny mission town in which I live. Panhandlers here are nigh unto non-existent. Once in a while, someone who is a bit down-and-out might spend a few hours sitting on one of the benches outside the small wooden complex that houses our local grocery story and post office. And then one might offer to share a cup of coffee or deli sandwich as my husband Donnie, who has more daytime hours for deli experiences than I do, has done upon occasion. But no one here had ever panhandled me personally until one day about a year ago when I pulled up to the post office to check our mailbox. A man on a motorcycle had pulled in ahead of me, had disembarked, and was stopping passersby, who were all shaking their heads and walking on. I paid scant attention, just a bit curious as to what was going on but since this is essentially a crime-free town gave little thought to the scene, and entered the post office. Having gathered all my mail, I started back to the car, but the motorcycle man intercepted me. He explained that he had encountered financial devastation in Ohio (the economy and all that -- who has not experienced at least a taste of the current economic crisis?) and had made arrangements to move in with his daughter in southern California one more day's drive away. He had run through all his food money and had just enough money for gas for the rest of the trip. He wondered if I could spare a dollar or two for a meal to tide him over. He even showed me his driver's license to prove who he was. I guess he had quickly picked up on the fact that people here are not used to panhandlers. Now I had to do something because once again I had
met the panhandler. Unfortunately, I had no cash with me, not even a couple of pennies. When I told him that, I could see the hope fade from his face. "But, wait," I added. "I have plastic. Plastic is good everywhere. Let's just go into the grocery store over here beside the post office. You pick out what you need, and I will pay for it." He picked very judiciously -- healthy food that would hold him over calorie-wise; just the absolute essentials to keep his stomach from growling for the remaining eight hours of his trip. I picked up strawberries for dinner; they were two for the price of one. As we walked out the door, I handed him the second container of strawberries. "They were free," I told him. "It would have been a waste of money to buy only one container, but it will be a waste of money to take both home because my husband and I cannot eat both before they spoil. Take them as a memory of our little town where strawberries grow in abundance." He thanked me and said he would never forget me or this town. He probably won't because I haven't forgotten him.
Of course, I have also from time to time dropped spare change into the hand, pan, hat, or cup of a panhandler. However, those people I don't remember because I did not meet them. The difference with the lady from Moscow, computer scientist from Virginia, and motorcycle man passing through my part of California is that for a brief time we shared a common moment, a union, a piece of ourselves. I will remember them and they me precisely because we touched each others' lives. These were good experiences, ones that made both me and the recipient of my small largesse (I suppose that's an oxymoron) feel better about ourselves and good about each other.
That latter part, the feeling good about
each other, I think, is very important and leaves me with the dilemma I started with because it is rare that I have the time needed or the money needed to do what I did in these instances. So, I am back to the question as to whether I should throw coins into a cup held out by someone I suspect will use it not for milk but for beer (am I contributing to a deterioration in his/her health, and am I, by thinking this very thought, judging him for which I have no right and, as Fr. Richard might say, deciding whether or not he or she is worthy of my love) or place a bill in an extended hand as I hurry into a metro station (I have often wondered what one of those panhandlers would think if instead of putting money into his/her hand, I simply shook it and introduced myself).
In conclusion, I don't have a conclusion to this post because I have not been able to resolve the dilemma. Is there someone who can provide some guidance here?
Something wonderful happened to my daughter, Lizzie, her 8th grade year when she return to her Arlington, Virginia high school after spending months living and attending school in Russia: she failed algebra and band. Until then, she had not only always been an A+ student but also, with a fall birthday, she had started kindergarten as one of the youngest children in the class and then proceeded to skip second grade and then seventh grade. Promoted to the eighth grade at the age of 11, she was placed in the high school, college-prep classes for high achievers: algebra, freshman English, French, earth science, and music (band). While Lizzie could keep up with her other subjects during her time in Russia, learning to play the flute was not a possibility. Russian schools are either regular schools, i.e. a little bit of everything, or specialized schools (spetsshkoly). Music schools, math schools, foreign-language schools, and sports schools are among the choices. Lizzie attended a foreign language school. Her knowledge of humanities and science did not suffer at this school; it blossomed. Music and math, however, were another story. The math "deficit" was actually a surprise. At the time, Soviet students were significantly outperforming American stduents in math, according to United Nations' statistics. And therein lay the problem. Lizzie also could outperform her peers in her American algebra class because they have not yet been taught the mechanics for performing algebraic operations whereas Lizzie and her Soviet peers had been practicing solving equations all year. Actually, the Soviet children had arrived already knowing how to do basic equations, so over there Lizzie had had to play catch-up, which she did rapidly, thanks to the encouragement of the math teacher, who never withheld approbation for even the slightest improvement and on the first day that Lizzie walked to the board and successfully explained the solution of a problem rewarded her with a warm molodets (an untranslatable positive label for a person who has done something remarkable; in English, "Way to go!" might come close). In her American classroom, however, Lizzie's peers had not begun the mechanics of algebra; they had been concentrating on theory and concepts.
