2nd Robertson Essay--an encounter on the street
Proverbs 19:2
"Desire without knowledge is not good; one who moves too hurriedly misses the way."
Proverbs 19:17
"Whoever is kind to the poor lends to the Lord, and will be repaid in full."
After working all day at the Café, putting in an extra-long Friday in order to prepare for fancy brunch for the paying customers the next day, I headed to neighboring Java-ology for any sort of chocolate-y caffeine I could afford.
Crossing the parking lot, I saw a nondescript street man watching my approach. I subtly changed course so as to avoid confrontation, veering to the right and seeking the glass doors of the coffee shop. A week ago a wiry man in a handsomely-tailored suit had introduced himself to me as a reverend, delivered a meaningful homily, and weasled me out of twenty bucks. Yesterday two men were wandering the parking lot and asked me for cash, but I directed them to Samaritan House, which would aid them much more than my spare change.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” followed from my left. I walked a few steps and immediately felt rotten.
“Yes?” I asked, stopping and turning to face him.
The man was African-American, my height and clad in a navy cap, shirt and baggy jeans—I didn’t notice much more because his eyes were the most unusual blue I have ever seen. Not contacts, because I would recognize that unnatural blue—not the milky-pale of blindness, either—just clear and unquestionably blue in a dark, worry-lined face.
He stayed about seven feet away, mumbling and trying to raise his voice above the traffic rushing by us.
“Can you—help? I need to eat.” He put his hand gingerly over his stomach, putting his hand on his shirt, allowing me to see there were noticeable inches of free air between his shirt and stomach.
“You should try the Samaritan House,” I offered knowledgeably, nodding with encouragement. “They’ll help you out there, it’s just over—”
“I tried there,” he said. “They don’t have anything.”
“Yes they do,” I argued. “They’ll help you there.”
“No, they don’t have anything,” he repeated. “Can you help me?”
I fumbled around for some pat verbal negative. “Well…I don’t carry cash,” I rushed, hoping to end the conversation easily.
“Please help me!” he suddenly yelled in broken desperation. He knelt down on one knee and covered his face with his hands, not looking at me. Every façade of mature aloofness I had tried to build up abruptly vanished.
“Oh—please—please don’t do that—”
It felt like everything in me was being squeezed, like the feeling of utter worthlessness was pressing on me from everywhere.
He stayed kneeling, top of his cap toward me and the cars whooshing by.
What the hell have I ever done to have, to be privileged, and for him to have not? Who am I that this man has just completely given up his dignity in public to compel me to give just a few dollars?
Squat, zip, zilch, nada and nothing, that’s what.
It hit me, in that overwhelming feeling of inferiority and cruelty, that it didn’t matter to this man I had volunteered all day from 8 am until 5:30 pm and would come in all-day tomorrow on a Saturday free for everyone else. It didn’t matter to this man that I had fed approximately 64 people delicious, nutritious food so they could find jobs and overcome their addictions. It didn’t matter that I was a college student, saving my money and hoping to get the skills and education to help more than one person a day. All that mattered to this man was a little food, from somewhere.
“Stay right there—I’ll be right back,” I said to him painfully, turning on my heel and walking straight into the locked doors of Java-ology. I walked around the corner to unlocked doors, went inside and stared at the menu, unseeingly. I ordered a drink, mocha-something or other to get some cash back, and a hefty bottle of water.
When I exited the doors, he was waiting, leaning against the brick wall and watching the ground. I handed him the bottle of water and a five-dollar bill.
“This is the last time I can help you like this,” I said, trying to sound stern and admonishing. “What you need to do is go to the Samaritan House. I promise you, they will help you get food, clothes, even a job—that’s their purpose.”
He nodded, holding the water and watching me.
“I’ll—I’ll be praying for you,” I said to him.
His cheeks lifted in a slow smile. “My name is Elijah, ma’am.”
“Good to meet you,” I responded automatically.
“Elijah Upshaw,” he continued. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Suzy,” I replied, feeling like the lowliest person alive. Samaritan House upholds polite courtesy from volunteers as essential for homeless people to regain dignity and take charge of their lives, and here this man was on the ball, introducing himself and asking my name before I could say a word.
He held out his hand.
The previous homeless shelter in Chapel Hill at which I work admonishes volunteers to never shake hands with the homeless if you can help it. My mentor’s words were written on the hand held toward me: If they are homeless, you can have no idea where they have been, what they have used those hands for. If you do have to shake hands, wash yours immediately!
His hand was dark black with crooked fingers, a slightly deformed and lumpy set of knuckles, the sort of hand they would show slowly emerging from behind a door in a horror flick.
I grasped his hand firmly and looked him straight in the face. “Take care of yourself, sir,” I said, not using a casual “Elijah,” and trying to give him the dignity he deserved just as much as anyone.
Back in my car, I clicked in my seatbelt, looked down at the forgotten mocha-something in my hand and all the sudden shut my eyes against hot tears.
How can I help these kindly folks in the Samaritan House program who are working their way through personal accountability plans and then walk out into the parking lot and nearly refuse a starving man? How is it possible to help dozens of folks like this every day, clients who are working on that sense of dignity by allowing me to serve them in the café and request dishes, men and women who are eager to tell me of their success with holding down a job, people who compliment me by letting me know they want to see me again, and then restrain myself from helping someone who really needs it right then and there?
I am reminded of walking with fellow ’09er Toni and her GA Tech friend Stephanie along some gorgeous park a few weeks ago. I stooped down to pick up a bit of Styrofoam along the trail, only to see a scrap of a drink, then a shard of glass, then a crushed cigarette. I can’t clean the entire park, should I just stop after one piece of trash and consider my good civic duty complete?
I can’t help all the homeless of Atlanta. They outnumber my entire hometown, I’m sure. But I can keep using my skills in the café, and I can help people on the streets who ask me. Yes, they might take the few bucks and trade it in for substances they ought not to, but who can say I didn’t give them the chance, try to direct them to better help and say honestly and clearly, “Go with God”?
I hope to see Mr. Upshaw in the Samaritan House, eating meals with the rest of the café-goers. It is fulfilling and wonderful to help out large numbers of people getting on their feet in the café, but I can’t pass up the smaller, individual and unexpected opportunities along the way.
And you know what? I’m glad I can help.
Back to the abbreviated Idiot's Guide to Atlanta
"Desire without knowledge is not good; one who moves too hurriedly misses the way."
Proverbs 19:17
"Whoever is kind to the poor lends to the Lord, and will be repaid in full."
After working all day at the Café, putting in an extra-long Friday in order to prepare for fancy brunch for the paying customers the next day, I headed to neighboring Java-ology for any sort of chocolate-y caffeine I could afford.
Crossing the parking lot, I saw a nondescript street man watching my approach. I subtly changed course so as to avoid confrontation, veering to the right and seeking the glass doors of the coffee shop. A week ago a wiry man in a handsomely-tailored suit had introduced himself to me as a reverend, delivered a meaningful homily, and weasled me out of twenty bucks. Yesterday two men were wandering the parking lot and asked me for cash, but I directed them to Samaritan House, which would aid them much more than my spare change.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” followed from my left. I walked a few steps and immediately felt rotten.
“Yes?” I asked, stopping and turning to face him.
The man was African-American, my height and clad in a navy cap, shirt and baggy jeans—I didn’t notice much more because his eyes were the most unusual blue I have ever seen. Not contacts, because I would recognize that unnatural blue—not the milky-pale of blindness, either—just clear and unquestionably blue in a dark, worry-lined face.
He stayed about seven feet away, mumbling and trying to raise his voice above the traffic rushing by us.
“Can you—help? I need to eat.” He put his hand gingerly over his stomach, putting his hand on his shirt, allowing me to see there were noticeable inches of free air between his shirt and stomach.
“You should try the Samaritan House,” I offered knowledgeably, nodding with encouragement. “They’ll help you out there, it’s just over—”
“I tried there,” he said. “They don’t have anything.”
“Yes they do,” I argued. “They’ll help you there.”
“No, they don’t have anything,” he repeated. “Can you help me?”
I fumbled around for some pat verbal negative. “Well…I don’t carry cash,” I rushed, hoping to end the conversation easily.
“Please help me!” he suddenly yelled in broken desperation. He knelt down on one knee and covered his face with his hands, not looking at me. Every façade of mature aloofness I had tried to build up abruptly vanished.
“Oh—please—please don’t do that—”
It felt like everything in me was being squeezed, like the feeling of utter worthlessness was pressing on me from everywhere.
He stayed kneeling, top of his cap toward me and the cars whooshing by.
What the hell have I ever done to have, to be privileged, and for him to have not? Who am I that this man has just completely given up his dignity in public to compel me to give just a few dollars?
Squat, zip, zilch, nada and nothing, that’s what.
It hit me, in that overwhelming feeling of inferiority and cruelty, that it didn’t matter to this man I had volunteered all day from 8 am until 5:30 pm and would come in all-day tomorrow on a Saturday free for everyone else. It didn’t matter to this man that I had fed approximately 64 people delicious, nutritious food so they could find jobs and overcome their addictions. It didn’t matter that I was a college student, saving my money and hoping to get the skills and education to help more than one person a day. All that mattered to this man was a little food, from somewhere.
“Stay right there—I’ll be right back,” I said to him painfully, turning on my heel and walking straight into the locked doors of Java-ology. I walked around the corner to unlocked doors, went inside and stared at the menu, unseeingly. I ordered a drink, mocha-something or other to get some cash back, and a hefty bottle of water.
When I exited the doors, he was waiting, leaning against the brick wall and watching the ground. I handed him the bottle of water and a five-dollar bill.
“This is the last time I can help you like this,” I said, trying to sound stern and admonishing. “What you need to do is go to the Samaritan House. I promise you, they will help you get food, clothes, even a job—that’s their purpose.”
He nodded, holding the water and watching me.
“I’ll—I’ll be praying for you,” I said to him.
His cheeks lifted in a slow smile. “My name is Elijah, ma’am.”
“Good to meet you,” I responded automatically.
“Elijah Upshaw,” he continued. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Suzy,” I replied, feeling like the lowliest person alive. Samaritan House upholds polite courtesy from volunteers as essential for homeless people to regain dignity and take charge of their lives, and here this man was on the ball, introducing himself and asking my name before I could say a word.
He held out his hand.
The previous homeless shelter in Chapel Hill at which I work admonishes volunteers to never shake hands with the homeless if you can help it. My mentor’s words were written on the hand held toward me: If they are homeless, you can have no idea where they have been, what they have used those hands for. If you do have to shake hands, wash yours immediately!
His hand was dark black with crooked fingers, a slightly deformed and lumpy set of knuckles, the sort of hand they would show slowly emerging from behind a door in a horror flick.
I grasped his hand firmly and looked him straight in the face. “Take care of yourself, sir,” I said, not using a casual “Elijah,” and trying to give him the dignity he deserved just as much as anyone.
Back in my car, I clicked in my seatbelt, looked down at the forgotten mocha-something in my hand and all the sudden shut my eyes against hot tears.
How can I help these kindly folks in the Samaritan House program who are working their way through personal accountability plans and then walk out into the parking lot and nearly refuse a starving man? How is it possible to help dozens of folks like this every day, clients who are working on that sense of dignity by allowing me to serve them in the café and request dishes, men and women who are eager to tell me of their success with holding down a job, people who compliment me by letting me know they want to see me again, and then restrain myself from helping someone who really needs it right then and there?
I am reminded of walking with fellow ’09er Toni and her GA Tech friend Stephanie along some gorgeous park a few weeks ago. I stooped down to pick up a bit of Styrofoam along the trail, only to see a scrap of a drink, then a shard of glass, then a crushed cigarette. I can’t clean the entire park, should I just stop after one piece of trash and consider my good civic duty complete?
I can’t help all the homeless of Atlanta. They outnumber my entire hometown, I’m sure. But I can keep using my skills in the café, and I can help people on the streets who ask me. Yes, they might take the few bucks and trade it in for substances they ought not to, but who can say I didn’t give them the chance, try to direct them to better help and say honestly and clearly, “Go with God”?
I hope to see Mr. Upshaw in the Samaritan House, eating meals with the rest of the café-goers. It is fulfilling and wonderful to help out large numbers of people getting on their feet in the café, but I can’t pass up the smaller, individual and unexpected opportunities along the way.
And you know what? I’m glad I can help.
Back to the abbreviated Idiot's Guide to Atlanta
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