Just wave

“Charity sees the need, not the cause.” – German proverb

"We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.” – Mother Teresa

There is a man roaming the streets of my neighborhood in a very dirty coat and hat. Perhaps he’s scoping out the houses, seeing who is home, checking schedules, watching us. He is always walking. Always dirty. Always, always, smelly. Let’s call him Mr. Walker.

As I drove into town one morning last week, turning past the woods behind and to the left of the CITGO gas station, I saw him emerge from his own house—it turns out he lives in the neighborhood–who knew?

My house was designed in 1903 by Richard Sharpe Smith, the supervising architect of The Biltmore House. Well, designed on a far smaller scale, that is. And if we just had a Florida room off the back and one extra bedroom or an office tucked away in the eaves and could redo the kitchen and make the mudroom into a little breakfast nook, well, then, it would be perfect. Oh, yes, and a big porch awning and if we could get our driveway repaved. Well, there’s always some need, isn’t there?

It turns out that Mr. Walker designed his own house, less than 500 yards from our place!

My house sits on a triangular point of land.

Mr. Walker’s house is surrounded by tall trees and Reed Creek, a beautiful meandering stream.

My house has a fenced-in backyard full of kids’ toys and the promise of a garden in more capable hands.

Mr. Walker’s house is in unfettered nature, no fences.

As I saw Mr. Walker come out of his own house, I was stopped cold.

His house is a pile of trash and cardboard in the woods, almost hidden from the road. In that moment, I realized that he walks because he has no place to go, sit, eat. He’s dirty because he has no place to wash. He sleeps in a trash mound because he has no place to rest.

What is my responsibility to this homeless man? How can I help him and save face for him at the same time and keep myself safe, too? Now that I have seen him stand up and emerge from the trash, how can I ignore that he is there, so close and yet so far away? How can I drive by and not offer a warmer coat, a pair of gloves, a sleeping bag? How can I avert my eyes when we pass on the street? Economic differences, class issues, disparities in income – what has money wrought in this nation of ours?

There is too much need in the world. I am unable to keep up with it.

See how easily I have made this a story about me?

How adept we are at dismissing people as less than human. If I can imagine myself in their situation, I pay more attention; if not, no. As I wrote earlier:

“The wave of horror I feel at the world’s pain has been revealed to me as a peculiar form of privilege; there is a sense of horror and a terrible sense of relief at the same time, if I am honest. I am not there, which allows me the luxury to have an intellectual response to this event. I must dig deeper into what it means to be connected to these people who are so affected; it is that intellectual response to tragedy that keeps us immune, that makes these tragedies all the more possible in the world. I manage my reaction to them by keeping them small tragedies, the size of my TV screen—I cannot allow that to happen and I must all at the same time. What am I doing about what’s happening in the Congo? Nothing. What am I doing about what’s happening in the Middle East?  Nothing. What am I doing about starving children in the world, about starving children in my town, about the man with no shoes downtown? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

When I first lived in Washington, D.C., there was a man who patrolled my neighborhood on Capitol Hill. "Fast Walker," we called him, because he walked so fast, an unlit cigarette always precariously balanced on his bottom lip, hanging off like a surfboard, bouncing with every step like catching a wave. I watched him for months, walking, walking, walking, thin and fast. 

One spring morning as I made my way to the Union Station metro stop en route to work, Fast Walker and I converged on a small park path, each walking the same way. I stepped up my pace. “Hi,” I said. Fast Walker wheeled around to face me, cutting off my way across the park. “YOU KNOW ME?” he yelled. “YOU KNOW ME?” “Well,” I daintily replied in my power suit, wishing I had not made the effort to be human, “I’ve seen you around the neighborhood and just thought I’d say hi.” “YOU DON’T KNOW ME! YOU DON’T KNOW ME!” he yelled back. It was 8:05 a.m.; the cars circling the park were getting an unusual show for this time of the morning, their windows down, turned to face the screams. I continued walking, replying quietly, “no, no, not really – I was just trying to be polite. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“WHERE YOU FROM?” he demanded of me. “WHERE YOU FROM?” “Originally?” I asked, still parsing the conversation way too small. “I’m originally from a little town in North Carolina; I’m sure you haven’t heard of it,” I said, plotting my escape, assessing the distance to Massachusetts Avenue. “MAYBE I HAVE,” he screamed, making me think we might have named him erroneously. Perhaps “Yelly Man” would have been more appropriate.

“Well, it was just a little place, called Morganton,” I said meekly, just wanting a cup of coffee, a nice anonymous Metro ride where no one speaks or makes eye contact, and some large piece of chocolate after this yelling match. “I’VE BEEN THERE! I’VE BEEN THERE!” he yelled, exciting himself by the prospect of such a connection. Imagine the odds! In the whole big universe of people, here we were at o’dark thirty in Washington, D.C.’s morning rush hour, evoking our shared history in a small town in North Carolina. 

Those odds just seemed too fantastic.

And then it hit me: the state mental institution for North Carolina is in my hometown. And as he told his story, I realized he had lived there, fulfilling a stereotype I harbor about homeless people—and one that I am challenging myself on—that homeless people are mentally unstable. Some are, I know, and some aren’t. Is it this fear that keeps me from engaging? And just so I have this straight in my own mind: I would help someone who has cancer, but not someone with a mental illness? And is homelessness just too big a divide to cross? What is the best way to help?

Wednesday, I stopped at the CITGO to pick up a Rice Krispie Treat. I could lie and say I stopped for a banana or an apple or something healthy, but I didn’t. It was one of those moments where only a Rice Krispie Treat will do.

As I sat in front of the CITGO, from the corner of my eye, I saw someone approach the parking lot, stopping to slide his finger into the change slot on the pay phone for any nickels that might have been left there by hurried callers. As I turned to look, I recognized the stained white coat of Mr. Walker. It was like seeing a movie star up close, the shock of recognition was so great.

He looks a little older than me, a good looking man with chiseled features and a wind- and sun-blown face, tanned against the white of his coat. He wears a red plaid shirt with that ubiquitous jacket and walks with slightly stooped shoulders, his gaze straight ahead, not looking side to side, as if he is so used to people averting their eyes that he doesn’t attempt eye contact anymore.

As he passed my car, he looked like a ship of state moving silently through water, straight to the dumpster to forage for food, looking for pennies, picking up what you and I have dropped. I watched him walk across the parking lot, then back past my car, stooped, a seeming resignation as he bent to slink through a thicket in the woods, branches thrust back by his many trips through it, like a dog that has been whipped and is going to its place in the dirt under a bush.

But this is a human being, not an animal. He is walking into a path you or I never see because we don’t need to, one created by innumerable trips from his trash pile home to the CITGO. I live less than 500 yards from him. Sheila McKechnie has said, “People who are homeless are not social inadequates. They are people without homes.” With the emphasis on the word “people.”

Yesterday, as my 2-year-old and I took John to work downtown, Tess wanted her window rolled down in the back seat of the car. She delights in waving to people with her tiny hand barely visible; in return, she expects nothing less than her own level of enthusiasm from those she greets in such a way.

As we stopped at a traffic light, Tess yelled loudly and waved wildly, “HI! HI! HI NICE MAN, HI NICE MAN!” and as I slowly turned to see the object of her attention, I realized it was Mr. Walker making his way slowly up Lexington Avenue, his stained white coat slung over his shoulder in the balmy day, his shoulders down. He turned slowly, as if to deflect the notice, and as he saw her tiny hand and exuberant greeting, Mr. Walker laughed out loud, stood up straight, his eyes smiling at the surprise, saying “HI!” in return and waving a generous wave, a recognition of humanity on both their parts, a connection, however brief.

And in that instant, Tess had found what I couldn’t—his dignity as a human, his right to recognition and greeting, his Self as precious as her own.

This morning, we stopped at the CITGO to put air in our bike tires before riding by the river, the weather having warmed. And there he was, picking his way through the brush. As we finished and drove past, Mr. Walker had reached his home and was sitting still, looking straight ahead.

~*~ 37 Days: Do it Now Challenge ~*~

Follow Tess’ lead and just wave. Just smile. Just acknowledge the humanity of the people around you who don’t seem as human as you are—they are, in fact, they are.

Isn’t Fear of the Other the worst fear we can have? Even if we turn away to remain safe, we lose our humanity sometimes. Engaging across these lines is messy sometimes—and sometimes it means being yelled at, but perhaps we need to get dirty once in a while.

And maybe, just maybe, we should stop complaining about our own lives long enough to remedy our own poverty and help others remedy theirs. As Mother Teresa has said, “hungry not only for bread – but hungry for love. Naked not only for clothing – but naked for human dignity and respect. Homeless not only for want of a room of bricks – but homeless because of rejection.”

Reject less.

Find your CITGO, that place where you can help.