That day I vowed that I would do whatever I could to
help homeless people. And over the years I have done
some things: donated money and clothing, edited a homeless
newspaper, and voted for political candidates who actively
cared about ending homelessness. Still, these small
gestures hardly begin to address the enormity of the
problem, even in my own Boston neighborhood.
Also, since Sept. 11, the weakened economy has been
a problem for many more people. The wealthy man who
lost money in the stock market decided he couldn’t
afford that oceanfront mansion on Cape Cod after all.
The middle-class woman who was downsized now has to
work two lower-paying jobs to make ends meet. And
the poor man who lost his minimum wage job and is
on the street needs to find a place to sleep tonight.
Of course there always have been beggars in cities.
But now there seem to be so many of them. They carry
signs reading: “Please could you spare 50 cents
for me?” “My dog and I are living on the
street — hope to do better” or a simple
“Please Help.”
The sound of summer has become the rattle of coins
in beggars’ cups.
Recently, I saw a small, 60s-ish woman sitting on
an upturned box, begging for change. With her short
white hair and neat appearance, she looked like she
could be anyone’s mother or grandmother. Except
that she’d hung a rope around her neck that
was attached to a rectangular sign that covered her
chest. Printed on the sign in black crayon was the
single word: “Homeless.”
Although I rarely give money to people begging, I
walked over to this woman, said hello and put a dollar
in her cup. She thanked me and I asked her if she
had any place to stay.
“Yes,” she replied and told me which
homeless shelter she slept in. She added that she’d
lived outside for many years before that though and
“it wasn’t too bad.”
I asked her if she had a family. She said she’d
lost custody of her children when they were very young
and hadn’t been able to get them back. But recently
she’d been reunited with them. Now she was hoping
to have a place to live soon.
“The children are making plans for me,”
she said.
“That’s great. How soon do you think
you’ll have a place?” I asked.
She didn’t know. She guessed maybe six months.
Or maybe eight.
“Anyway,” she said pleasantly, “come
back and see me. I’m here all the time.”
I thanked her, wished her well and walked away, feeling
helpless. And she continued to sit and beg, this woman
who says she has grown children who are making plans
for her while she stays at a homeless shelter.
As I walked away, I saw a man at the end of the block
rooting through a garbage can. He picked out a food
container, opened it and examined the contents. Then
he put the container back and continued to search.
It’s been years since the first time I saw someone
eating out of a garbage can and I still haven’t
gotten used to it. I hope I never will.
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